


Falling Down

by pheonixgate1



Series: Tales of Eorzea [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Adult!Alphinaud, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apathetic Cruelty, But It's Not That Dark, Hints of Canabalism (sort of), M/M, Mind Control, Most of these Tags are for Zenos, Multi, Naked Alphinaud, Non-Evil Garleans, People die in this, honestly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 00:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14800647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pheonixgate1/pseuds/pheonixgate1
Summary: Things happen a little differently after Doma. For a lot of people. But mostly Alphinaud.





	1. Bad Medicine

**Author's Note:**

> True story: I started writing this after the end of the Stormblood MSQ at launch because honestly? To Hell with THAT. Assumes the Doma part of the story plays out as intended, at least up until 4.0. IS NOT influenced by more recent MSQ, though some might find some similarities. It is not intentional. :/

“Stay.”

 

His Carbuncle cocked its head as if to question the logic of such a command, but did as bade. Satisfied that his main line of defense was deployed, he scanned the area; checking for any signs of being followed. Alphinaud would likely never be the fighter his sister was, but Yugiri had taken him under her wing and taught him few tricks of the trade. Shinobi, he discovered, were far too pragmatic for the frontlines but their less-than-savory tactics had proven to be quite invaluable—especially their knowledge of stealth.

 

Satisfied that he was alone, he inspected the contents of the small satchel he’d brought. There was some cold-packed bento—simple fare that would be kind to his fluttering stomach. A flask of Doman milk tea. And a flat cushion and blanket which he promptly shook out. At the very bottom of it all, was a sealed vial of Opium—a last resort he had no intention of using.

 

He lowered himself onto the bedding with a sigh.

 

He could already feel the dull ache in his temples and the heaviness of his limbs. He’d had trouble focusing all day, to the point that he used thin excuses to beg off from his usual duties. Alisaie would have seen right through it, of course but she was a continent away and he couldn’t help but be glad of it.

 

Better she not bear witness to this latest folly, for it promised to be a painful lesson indeed.

 

His stomach began to churn and he splayed a hand against it, a futile attempt at placation. There was little inside to make it ache so, but he knew it was just a symptom—one of many to come. Yugiri had warned him when she had reluctantly pressed the container into his palm. Stories of hale Shinobi falling in their tracks after having been on the medicine too long, dead for lack of food and rest. At first he was careful, making sure to eat regularly even if he felt he didn’t need it and sleeping when he could. But eventually Zenos had tightened his noose, and too many near-misses took their toll. He’d stopped being careful and started doing what was needed to stay ahead.

 

And now here he was. Malms away with naught but the sky as witness to his shame.

 

A chill wracked his body and he curled inward to conserve heat. His face and neck felt sticky and feverish yet his core steadily cooled into a Coerthan winter. He was glad of the heavy surcoat he wore, though he knew the tremors he felt had little to do with the temperate night air. The sickness was starting in earnest.

 

Soon the dull ache in his head became a stabbing pain and his stomach, a fitful writhing knot.

 

Desperate for distraction, he set his mind adrift. There were his many on-going ‘projects’, but as they were reason he was here, riding out an addiction to the miracle medicine that had made them possible, he chose not to touch on them. Instead he went back. Back to the beginning. Back to where it all started.

 

 

Back to the day that he, Alphinaud Leveilleur; Scion, scholar and reluctant warrior, had knocked down Zenos Yae Galvus and changed the course of... well, not history as of yet but certainly the war.

 

 

It began as most things do, as a problem. Alphinaud had begun turning his great intellect to the issue of the imminent promise of Imperial invasion during their run-ins with the Black Wolf. It required a great deal of abstract theory, as it was a complex situation not unlike the looming threat posed by the beast tribes and their Primals. History had not been kind to the Garleans. However, unlike the beastmen, their oppression had not resulted in false gods; merely a solution. One that not only worked, but excelled to become the menace it was today.

 

Loosening the ever-tightening garrote of Garlean occupation was put on hold whilst regrouping in Ishgard, but as the Dragonsong War came to a close and thus his active role in it, he inevitably drew his focus back to Garlemald once more. For the newest threat, Zenos Yae Galvus, was a force barely touched even by the might of the Warrior of Light and the Scions could not ignore the plight of the realm—especially not with Ilberd’s parting gift still on the loose.

 

The Crown Prince seemed to embody all of the elements of the Empire’s success. His formidable armor, his unorthodox tactics and his zeal for a true challenge reflected the Garlean trifecta of Magitek, intellect and battlefield prowess. And yet, he barely ruled the province over which he was stationed, passing the title to current Viceroy almost immediately. His cunning and ruthlessness in battle was legendary, yet he condemned indiscriminate slaughter. To the people under his lackadaisical rule, he was an immortal tyrant and yet he chaffed under the yolk of his station—as petulant as any highborn forced to carry out a duty deemed beneath them.

 

 

After debating long and hard on a tangible solution, Alphinaud had settled on the most workable one; cracking wide that fearsome shell. Theoretically to make getting at the contents a bit easier but also to expose those contents for what they really were: a man.

 

And it had been Nero—the disgraced Tribunus, who had offered the insight needed to make what happened that fateful day a reality, though at hearing Alphinaud’s reasoning he was understandable skeptical.

 

 

_“You have to understand that we must prove ourselves before we even touch a suit of armor. It is created, fitted and worn only after we have earned the right to do so. I understand what you’re trying to do. -I do. But removing the armor is no great factor, especially with warriors of Zenos’ caliber—and his is by far the most outstanding example of what Garlemald can produce. It is no different than what the Emperor himself wears, beyond obvious differences in style.”_

But Alphinaud would not be deterred. After seeing first-hand the people’s fear and the catastrophic effect it had on morale, he was certain that proving the armor could and would fail was a priority and bent his head to the task.

 

It was with great surprise that Nero offered up his own armor for experimentation. It was not of the same quality as Zenos’ of course, but the concept of its construction and its basic function was identical—as were the base  materials. Armed with his understanding of how the technology actually worked, Alphinaud was eventually able to fine tune a spell that tricked the entire suit into disengaging.

 

This had pleased its owner, who had clapped delightedly at the sight of his armor strewn across the floor until Cid had poked his head into the room and demanded to know what they were getting up to. He had been hovering, ferocious as a mother bear and it had been a relief to finally put the Ironworks to his back, if only to escape the tension the two seemed to generate _Ad Nauseum_.

 

While he had been gathering up his notes however, Nero had moved in close. Wary of his colleague’s threats, he had muttered just loud enough for Alphinaud to hear:

 

_“You’ll only get one chance with him, boy. Use it wisely.”_

And then promptly gave him some space at Cid’s scowl.

 

 

There was truth in that and Alphinaud made a personal vow to ensure that the one chance he had would matter. He stayed away from battle, tending his machinations from afar. He shamefully allowed the Warrior of Light to occupy most of man’s attention while he kept watch for the right time and place. He steeled his resolve as the Butcher and her Skulls continued to cut a bloody swath in the name of the Prince. His plan required a proper stage with the proper players in attendance. Naught else would suffice.

 

 

Until it was Krile1, and everything went to Hell.

 

 

In hindsight, the blame for what was to come rested solely on his shoulders. They’d been warned about Zenos. About his keen intelligence and outlandish tactics. Alphinaud had listened to reports of showing his back to his enemies, of walking away rather than ending it with blood. This extreme arrogance had painted him as a being who could not know defeat. Alphinaud knew better of course. Had the cure to that particular malady in hand, but without a suitable instance in which to use it, he instead took advantage of the man’s apathetic style of rule; carefully unwinding the Empire’s grip on the region in more subtle ways.

 

He hadn’t counted on becoming collateral damage.

 

It had been an unfortunate crossing of paths. Yugiri’s warning had come too late, though her agents nearly killed themselves in their haste. With Doma freed there was much to do in the way of rebuilding, so he could not fault them for casting only a spare eye on Zenos’ movements now that his focus was elsewhere. He would later learn that it was a whim that had the man accompanying one of the local bureaucrats as they performed their mundane inspections. Certainly they had not been expecting the Crown Prince to walk into their ambush.

 

Where luck had placed the Warrior of Light once again in Zenos’ path, to his obvious delight, the rest of them had gotten luck of an entirely different sort.

 

 

As the two squared off, he quickly took up arms. At the very least, he reasoned, he’d be able to secure an escape for their small band while staying to offer support to his more-than-able comrade. The handful of scouts and Resistance fighters with them had engaged the attending Imperials, who proved to mostly be Administrators and a small contingent of guards.

 

He had already formed a stratagem for their controlled retreat, when power surged from Zenos and he heard Krile cry out.

 

The shockwave nearly knocked him insensate, but his Carbuncle took the brunt of it and he was able to stagger to his feet. Krile, having no such defense, lay on the ground, groaning in pain. She’d been hit as she cast a powerful healing on the Warrior of Light, and had borne the brunt of the attack. He quickly cast his own healing spell and used his waning mana to erect a barrier around them as he called his familiar back. Even with the added defense, it was unlikely they could take another hit of that magnitude. The bodies of Resistance and Imperial alike surrounded them. If they didn’t help them soon, there would be no helping them at all.

 

The Warrior of Light had fared only slightly better by the grace of Krile’s efforts, but even with his focus trained on a more worthy opponent, the Viceroy had nearly killed them all.

 

Krile made a soft sob of distress beside him. In his mind’s eye he saw his pudgy child’s hands reaching for her. Heard the tinkle of her laughter cutting through the indifferent silence or vague annoyance of his much older, much more learned peers. He remembered once being of a height. Of meeting her eyes and seeing only kindness, with a sparkle of mischief.

 

 

Zenos hadn’t even been looking at them. He had eyes only for his true opponent and cared little for whatever he destroyed in the pursuit of his own amusement.

 

It was then that something within Alphinaud, something deep and worn brittle with worrying, snapped.

 

 

The spell he had developed was a simple one. A combination of aetheric elements of varying types, interwoven in precise increments in order to confuse the armors built-in defenses. His plan had been to carefully increase the potency when using it against Zenos but Alphinaud had been in no state for delicacy and had gladly spent what remained of his mana into its casting.

 

Zenos’ slow advance towards the Warrior was halted as the armor on his legs and waist suddenly slipped to his ankles. The plating on his arms hit the ground with muted thuds. His gauntlets and chest armor which, thanks to Nero, he knew were made of many interlocking pieces stubbornly clung to his frame but they would hinder him more than protect him now.

 

Slowly the Viceroy turned, armor shedding as he did so, and Alphinaud had felt a peculiar tingle in his spine as he realized Zenos finally _saw_ him.

 

It was pure chance that his Carbuncle chose that moment to land a hit, and with a shriek of metal struck Zenos in the chest with a blast of pure wind. Without the full magick-dampening effects of the armor it launched the Crown Prince backwards, his remaining armor scattering in all directions before he landed hard on his back some yalms away.

 

The sight of it was seared into his brain and he could only watch as the Prince struggled to right himself, eyes wide with surprise.

 

“Repose!”

 

 

White mist enveloped the Viceroy who ceased his movements and succumbed, bless Krile’s little White heart. She was on her feet beside him, panting but alive and the sight filled him with such relief that the anger slid out of him—leaving only cold realization of what he’d done.

 

Unaware of his inner turmoil, Krile began to look to the wounded and demanded he do the same. Mechanically, he found himself asking after his friend, who shook their head at his offer of healing. The dazed expression they wore would’ve been gratifying if the cause of it hadn’t been slumbering a short distance away. He moved to a fallen Imperial and began to treat them, trusting the Eikon Slayer’s presence enough to deter any thought of attack. His mind, however, had been reeling.

 

His chance. His _one_ chance. His plan to make a mortal man of the Crown Prince had failed. The stage, the audience… it had all been _wrong_ but as he heard Krile snap something terse to whoever she’d been healing, he realized he regretted nothing. They would all walk away from this, Imperial and Resistance alike and it was the best he could’ve hoped for—given the circumstance.

 

 

Regret would come later. General Aldynn had not cared that Alphinaud’s only thought had been the lives of those around him. He cared only that the enemy had been laid low, yet the final stroke left undone.

 

 

It turned into a bitter argument. Alphinaud had seen it too many times with the Beast Tribes, and later in Ishgard. An endless cycle of violence intertwined with fleeting threads of calm. The Scions were tasked with ending the Primal threat, but that meant more than just putting them to the sword. It was understanding the circumstances that called them into being and circumventing them so that there was no cause to call upon such a terrible power in the first place.

 

They had been shouting by the end of it. Pipin and Alisaie had stepped in and pulled them apart. Eventually he had very politely been asked to leave the camp and he had, making for the Rising Stones. But even then, he’d expected cooler heads to prevail. Then weeks passed with no word and he’d finally reached out only to find he’d been removed from a number of Alliance Linkshells. Nearly all of them, in fact.

 

That had been the blow that nearly did him in. That he should be passively branded a traitor for not committing what would have certainly been murder at the time…He’d locked himself in his room, trying to figure out what to do with himself, ignoring all who came to his door.

 

 

After three days of little food and even less sleep, Higiri had taken matters into her own hands, as only a Shinobi could.

 

 

She had explained, while pressing tea into Alphinaud’s listless hands, that her Countrymen had very particular rules when it came to battle. Specifically honor. To strike down one’s enemy when they were defenseless was considered reprehensible. Shinobi, of course, were more practical but they were also looked upon as a sort of necessary evil. With the near extinction of the Samurai and their contribution to Doma’s liberation, that opinion was changing. But it still didn’t mean their actions were met with approval.

 

A ninja would have slit a sleeping man’s throat, but it wouldn’t have been considered a victory. More a necessity, one forever to be borne with shame.

 

 

This justification had helped Alphinaud somewhat. After taking in some food, he’d collapsed into his bed, insensate for an entire day. The next thing he remembered was being gently shaken awake by Urianger, who had another revelation for him. It seems removing him from the Alliance Linkshells had partially been for his own safety. Two of the Conscriptus guards who had been present for his failed ambush had all but fled to the Resistance stronghold and thrown themselves at the mercy of its Generals.

 

Once questioned, it had been discovered that after their Lord’s awakening, Zenos had lifted his hands to the sky and nearly howled with laughter—terrifying his attending retinue. Shortly after, he’d decreed that Alphinaud Leveilleur be brought to him, alive. By any means necessary.

 

This was not an order for the Province but rather, the Empire as a whole. In a single day, Alphinaud had become the most-wanted man on three continents.

 

While he’d been abed, Urianger and Thancred arranged for his extradition to Doma. Lord Hien had reached out after hearing of the unfortunate timing of his shinobi had immediately offered sanctuary. It had made little sense to Alphinaud at the time, hiding in a country barely able to piece itself together, but he’d allowed himself to be ushered away. Off to an unofficial exile that had, either by design or providence, turned into lengthy game of bait-and-switch. One which had lasted nearly five years now.

 

 

“Well, well, _well_ … Such a boon to find you alone and away from meddlesome allies and yet you burn and gasp with sickness. -Is this why you crawled away? To die alone, like some wounded animal? Oh, that won’t do _at all_.”

 

 _No._ That… couldn’t be. Not here. Not _now._ He cracked a watering eye and glared at his Carbuncle who, having sensed no violent intent, continued to obediently ignore the intruder. He groaned as his stomach became a hot bloated stone beneath his skin. Gods but he’d never been in such pain in all his life!

 

His eyes fluttered shut again but not before taking in the sight of that familiar death’s-head mask kneeling at his side. A part of his brain not currently occupied with the pains of his body was surprised. Since the day Alphinaud had divested him of it, Zenos had decided to eschew his signature armor; instead wearing some sort of military garb, not unlike what his officers wore. It had vexed him, for it sent a clear message that the Viceroy was not simply the contents of his armor but rather a force unto himself; which had been the exact opposite of what he’d been trying to achieve.

 

There was a rustling as Zenos rifled through the contents of his satchel. He ‘hmmm’ed when he discovered the vial.

 

“Poison or cure? Will this aid you, or hasten you on your way?”

 

 

Alphinaud’s head feels like rotted fruit but he tries to indicate a negative. Even the thought of trying to swallow the thin liquid is repulsive to him and he’s not sure the Opium will do much of anything at this point. Other than come right back up.

 

He tries and fails to imagine what he must look like, sweating, shivering and curled into a miserable ball. Certainly no challenge for the Viceroy today. Normally he’d take vindictive pleasure in that, but he can only mourn the fact that Zenos is unlikely to run him through if he’s offering succor.

 

He feels himself being lifted and the jostle of it is enough to make him heave what little he has in his stomach. He expects to be dropped to avoid the mess but his face meets cool armor, despite the fact that he is still gagging on his own bile. Alphinaud can feel Zenos speaking through the hum of the man’s breastplate, but his awareness has been robbed by his body’s rebellion and he cannot understand what is being said.

 

When the Viceroy rises to his full height, the sudden vertigo is enough to jar him from consciousness and he gladly embraces the waiting dark.

 

1This Krile Plot-Device is obviously not the same as the one that actually happened. Just very close.


	2. Chapter 2

_When awareness returns, it does so softly and Alphinaud knows it is a dream._

_He knows this place, though he has never seen it with his eyes. The familiarity is tangible and he realizes that this is a dream he’s had before. Likely more than once._

_There is stone and wind and sun. Beneath his seated form, the softness of bare earth and the slide of grass. A sweet scent tickles his nose, masking the tang of aether at the back of his throat. For a moment all he can do is let the air stir around him as he gets his bearings in this familiar place he does not know._

_There is a weight in lap._

_It is the head and shoulders of a man, with the length of him laid out before. This man, like this place, is familiar but Alphinaud cannot place him at the moment though he knows he should. There is an impression of dark clothing but what really arrests his attention is the face. Thick lashes. Hooded eyes. Pale hair. A visage taken from a place of music and art._

_Recognition rears its head like a waking dragon, but Alphinaud takes in the blood and suddenly knows-_

_This man is dead._

_Alphinaud is himself an adequate healer, though it is not his focus, and he knows it is too late to do anything other than tend to the body. Yet he does not move away. Does not relieve himself from the corpse’s weight. He raises his face to the wind’s caress and feels inexplicably, a pervading sense of loss._

*

 

 

When he wakes, he finds himself in even stranger circumstances, though the dream is all but forgotten.

 

He blinks lethargically. It takes him a moment to shake off the last dregs of sleep, though lassitude still covers him like an old quilt. Once he can fully register his surroundings, he feels a hum deep in his bones that signals he is no longer on Terra Firma. This should probably be distressing, but he finds he can’t muster the strength at the moment. The bed beneath him cradles him with its embrace—a luxury Alphinaud has not felt in some time2.

 

Bleary eyes take in the modest but well-appointed suite—no gaol, this, and everywhere his eyes rest there is the dull gleam of metal. The bit that catches his attention is next to his bed. There, nestled in a cluster of faintly pulsing crystal is a steel carafe that his twice-parched throat can only hope is water.

 

He lifts his hand experimentally. As he suspects, it is the consistency of over-cooked pasta and he lets it fall with a huff.

 

Alphinaud is not deterred. While he has no hope of lifting the heavy jug, nor the articulation to actually drink without making a spectacular mess, he is not without recourse. Carefully and with great concentration he lifts his hand again and rests a finger against the blissfully cool surface of the jug. When the warmth has caused moisture to gather around the tip he slowly brings the digit back to rest above his opened mouth.

 

The drop hits the back of his tongue, and what was a lump of unfeeling shoe leather becomes living tissue once more. He doesn’t groan in pleasure, he’s not got enough moisture in his throat, but it’s a very near thing.

 

A chuckle startles him and not only does he lose the next drop to his chin but he feels a stinging pain when his other hand jerks and finds the reason for the heaviness of his body. There is tubing attached to his hand that is connected to a hanging bladder of clear liquid. He squints at the contraption, temporarily forgetting the intruder until he hears the unmistakable sound of pouring.

 

He knows its Zenos but the fact doesn’t have time to really register before the man has him by the back of the neck; a cool rim at his mouth. Alphinaud’s first concern is the needs of his body so he concentrates on getting as much of the precious liquid into him as possible. The hand propping him up is unyielding; the cup tilted at precise increments to ensure he doesn’t take too much. It’s an agonizingly slow process but he’s not the one in control of it; just the one who desperately needs what it provides.

 

It takes getting through half of the cup this way before Alphinaud realizes he is being studied by an intense blue gaze.

 

 

“Had enough?”

 

 

He hasn’t. Not by a long-shot but the Viceroy is too close and he feels a prickle of unease slide past his body’s demands. He croaks out a ‘yes’ and Zenos sets the cup aside but doesn’t release him. He can see now that the man’s hair is tied up messily and the robe he wears shows an alarming amount of chest. It is as dressed down as he’s seen anyone, let alone a sworn enemy and he can’t help but stare.

 

Suddenly, he is aware of the air hitting his bare shoulders and the slide of bedding over his skin and he knows with certainty that while the Crown Prince is dressed down, he is not dressed _at all._

 

 

He must have a look of horror on his face, because Zenos makes an amused hum before finally lowering him back into the pillow.

 

“Oh that _look_. I assure you that despite evidence to the contrary, your virtue—such as it is, remains untouched; though your modesty perhaps, not so much.”

 

If Alphinaud had the usual facilities at his disposal, he might have been more careful with his words. Choosing a response that would give nothing away even as it evoked a desired reaction. He was very good at that. A natural-born statesman, his sister would say with distaste.

 

However as he is naked, at his captor’s mercy and most importantly, coming off of some very nice drugs, he’s less concerned about semantics and more concerned with the immediate consequences of… all of that.

 

 

“Is this how all your captives wake up? Strange protocol, but the bed is a nice touch.”

 

 

This seemed to amuse the man further, for he let loose a full-bodied laugh. He can only hope his frown conveys his displeasure as he struggles to sit up without letting the full scope of his nakedness become apparent. Zenos moves to assist but stops short at his glare. He chuffs at the show of churlishness.

 

 

“My, such venom. And after I so graciously saved your life. -The reason for your state of undress is that you were covered in filth when I found you. I’m afraid haste overruled preserving your dignity, but really. Clothing is, by far the least of your worries.”

 

Alphinaud can’t quite hide the wince at the implication that he soiled himself. He remembers the horrible sensation of retching but little else once he finally passed out. He supposes he should be grateful. He’s obviously been cleansed and left to recover. He can justify the rest as medical necessity.

 

The prince regards him thoughtfully.

 

“Although I suppose I could be persuaded to restore some small measure of dignity, provided it is _earned_.”

 

 

He sighs at that and motions vaguely to the man’s own distinct lack of clothing.

 

“How very gracious of you. Is there a reason for your own dishabille, or was the effort just not worth it today?”

 

 

Zenos’ smile is all teeth even as he affects an air of disappointment.

 

 

“Come now. Haven’t you figured it out yet? -I suppose it’s the drugs. You’re nearly weaned of them, thankfully. You’re no sport at all numbed-down to the intelligence of a mere _mortal_.”

 

He sweeps off to a large metal cabinet and looks over the contents. It appears to be clothing. –And then it clicks.

 

The familiarity, the casual dress, the fact that it’s a _suite_. On the Enterprise the best you could hope for was a soft bunk. This was obviously Zenos’ private craft. Anything larger would have alerted his Doman compatriots.

 

 

“These are your rooms.” He looks around but sees no other bed. The Prince must be sleeping elsewhere. He wonders what the crew thinks of that. He also wants to ask _why_ , but he’s already figured that out too. A ship this size wouldn’t have a brig or sickroom and he’s too high-profile for the crew to handle.

 

 

“Ah, there it is. You’ve no idea how much I’ve missed our little tête-à-têtes. I feel as though I’ve been speaking to individual sacks of stone since the Steppes.”

 

 

Alphinaud recalls that particular event. It was, in fact, the first time since the ambush that the two of them had been close enough for any meaningful dialogue to be exchanged. Of course, at the time the Crown Prince had been attempting to hold the entire Steppe and its inhabitants for ransom—all for his unequivocal surrender.

 

That was, until the Dotharl Khantun had activated her Monoliths and his fleet had fallen from the sky with a groan of metal.

 

He regards his erstwhile captor as he steps into a pair of trousers, the robe preserving his dignity somewhat. That had been both a victory and a defeat in a way. The aetheric data he’d recorded from Sadu’s spell had been reviewed by the Alliance’s top spell-weavers and had eventually been worked into warding that worked like Jagd3.

 

Suddenly, the encroaching Castrums found themselves without supplies and later, without bodes to run them as the starving Conscriptus were forced to abandon them to survive. Even the most stubborn Officers succumbed and were taken without a fuss. With airships unable to fly wherever the ward was active, the Empire’s aerial might took a decisive blow.

 

Inevitably, this caught the attention of the Emperor himself.

 

And while Zenos’ proclamation for his capture had been treated like law, it hadn’t exactly been enforced like one. At least until the Empire found their foreign holdings greatly reduced and one person obviously to blame.

 

 

“So much for the integrity of the Imperial Education. -Is your intention to keep me indecent until we reach the Capitol or has my unintentional complicity afforded me the luxury of—“

 

He is interrupted by the sudden weight of silk over his head. He had politely turned away while the other man finished dressing so he missed Zenos shrugging out of the robe and chucking it at him. Still faintly warm from being worn, Alphinaud slides it off his head in time to see the pale, nearly perfect line of the Viceroy’s back before it too is clothed.

 

While not as large as his armor suggests, the Prince is still impressive. He has to wonder if all Garleans have a predilection for physical excellence. Certainly all those he’s acquainted with seem to.

 

He puts the robe on. Normally, Alphinaud would balk at wearing the clothes off of someone else’s’ back but while he’s been treated like a guest so far, he knows it’s just semantics.

 

–Also, it’s clothing. The high-born part of him can stop panicking now.

 

 

“Thank you. –For this and my recuperation, though it seems a bit counterproductive.”

 

 

With a put-upon sigh, Zenos sits down on the edge of the bed to pull his boots on; uncaring that it is, at present, occupied. Alphinaud hastily tries to make room, but he feels the sharp bite of the tubing in his hand and ends up squirming ineffectually against the other man’s back. He finally gives up with a huff and simply stares at the ceiling while the Prince finishes his task.

 

 

“Counterproductive? Really. Did you think I wanted you alive just so I could kill you in some grand spectacle?” He scoffs, stamping each boot against the deck. “There are so few who can oppose me, it would be foolish to waste one to such boorish amusements. –Besides, we don’t execute our prisoners in public. That sort of theatre is reserved for you Savages.”

 

He frowns. Alphinaud had assumed his execution would be forthcoming upon his arrival in Garlemald. After all, an edict from the Emperor could not be ignored—even by his son.

 

 

“And does His Radiance feel the same way, I wonder?”

 

 

Alphinaud remembers meeting Varis Zos Galvus in the Sea of Clouds as a boy, though he’d thought himself a man then. Thankfully his outrage at the attempted slaughter of the peaceful Gundu had fortified him through the meeting. Intellectually he knows that, like Zenos, the Emperor is just a man, but he had a presence that Alphinaud had felt even then. A flutter in his stomach that his anger couldn’t quite overcome.

 

This time, that presence would be trained on him, and him alone. He does not relish the thought.

 

 

Mentioning his father invoked nothing from the Prince, who rose from his seat and regarded him thoughtfully before breaking into an amused smile.

 

“Oh, I’m certain he’ll find you as charming as I do. -A Medicus will be along shortly to examine you. You can show your thanks by behaving yourself. I trust I don’t need to remind you that we are airborne and there is nowhere for you to go but down.”

 

 

He frowned but acquiesced. There was little else he could do.

 

“Rest assured, I’ve no intention of flinging myself into the abyss. And so long as your Medicus conducts themselves appropriately, I will of course, allow them to perform their duties.”

 

 

The smile never wavered but the eyes narrowed at his easy acceptance.

 

“It’s fortunate that certain members of my staff are Doman. I doubt anyone else would have recognized your symptoms. Perhaps you should keep that in mind when judging if their actions are _appropriate._ ”

 

With that the Prince takes his leave. He hears him speak to someone at the door, likely a guard. Alphinaud gives it only a passing thought as he works through the implications of what he’s just learned.

 

 

A Doman working for the Empire? _Now?_

 

 

*

 

 

Sometime later found Alphinaud resting comfortably against the hull of the ship, the warmth of the day’s sun and the deep thrum at his back lulling him into a doze. He isn’t quite sure just how he ended up here, but after the surprise of meeting whom he now knows to be Zenos’ personal physician (and yes, a Doman), he was ushered out onto the observation deck to a plush seating area built right into the bow.

 

The Crown Prince, already sat with a light repast laid before him, raised his cup in toast and Alphinaud sighed as he was pointedly maneuvered within the other man’s line of sight. It seems no chances would be taken, convalescence or no.

 

Once he’d been settled and a Hingan sun-hat thrust into his hands, he’d largely been left to his own devices beyond the aging Medicus’ terse orders to _cover yourself, Ijin fool._ His double-take at Alphinaud’s reply in nearly perfect Doman had been gratifying but his lack of recognition to the hand-signals Yugiri had taught him had not.

 

If the man was an agent of the Resistance, former or present, he wasn’t owning up to it.

 

He was brought a plate of fruit and cheese and a fresh carafe. After picking at the food, he drank an entire cup of water, unaided; ignoring his captor’s amused gaze. Once he’d had his fill, it had been whisked away and the hat fastened to his head despite his weak protests (doctor’s orders, apparently).

 

From his new vantage, Alphinaud watched the Prince receive multiple reports from various crew members; holding court amidst the clouds. He knew he should be paying more attention to what was being said but while the shielding kept the worst of the wind at bay, it was still a dull roar and Alphinaud had no real skill at reading lips.

 

He eventually lost interest in watching Zenos go about his daily drudgery and fell into a light stupor, then a doze.

So relaxed was he, that when the ship suddenly lurched he was thrown off the padded bench onto the deck, legs akimbo and likely giving a show to anyone at the right angle. It was that, more than seeing Zenos striding towards him, that had him shaking off the disorientation. The Viceroy wasted no time; grabbing his bicep and lifting him upright with a strength that belied his frame.

 

“What is—”

 

The ship rocked violently again. He would have been knocked off of his feet if not for the solid weight of the Prince, who had somehow managed to stay upright. He half-dragged, half-walked Alphinaud to the portcullis and handed him off to the guard he found there, who had obviously been on his way to fetch him.

 

“ _Sir_!-“

 

“-Strap him down somewhere.”

 

The guard immediately took hold of him as Zenos strode to what was likely the bridge. The hand around his arm was insistent but not nearly as steady. He briefly considered using the situation to his advantage, but even as they trailed behind the Prince an explosion reverberated through the ship. Thankfully there was no impact but they were still engaged with… something.

 

Alphinaud briefly wondered if it was the Admiral, but he’d not spoken directly to any member of the Alliance for some years now and Doma had no fleet to speak of. And there certainly hadn’t been time to—

 

“Status.”

 

He had been right about the ship’s size. Having no other place to secure a prisoner, the guard had followed the Viceroy to the bridge and pressed him into a seat against the wall. Alphinaud listened unabashed as he was strapped into what could only be described as crash webbing. It was obvious the apparatus was not intended for correctional restraint, and the guard must have realized it at the same time for he dutifully stationed himself nearby.

 

“Sir! The shields are holding, but we still can’t figure out what’s shooting us. We’re trying to maneuver the best we can but it’s only a matter of time until they hit something vital.”

 

Zenos stalked to what was presumably the helm and tapped a sequence on the console. A large, luminous map filled the viewport; their position a pulsing red dot. Alphinaud had to swallow his delighted surprise in order to try and parse their relative location. While he was able to identify some of the more familiar landmasses, the particular area with their dot well… It just wasn’t possible.

 

 

“I think you should check your instrumentation because according to that map we’re right over—”

 

 

“Jagd Yensa, yes. More importantly, Nam-Yensa, which is why our attackers continue to evade our sensors. The Castrum has been abandoned for nearly as long as I’ve been alive but it once boasted the most advanced long-range artillery array of it’s time—as I’m sure the scavengers currently operating it can attest.”

 

Alphinaud processed the fact that Garlemald had ships capable of flying in Jagd and clearly had for some time. Which made the Alliance’s wards less a line of defense and more of a stall tactic. Still, it was the other more pressing fact that filled his voice with astonishment.

 

 

“You built a Castrum. In _Jagd_ -“

 

 

“Two actually. Because my grandfather was an idiot.” He turned to the helmsman. “Focus the scanners below us and get us out of range of those guns. Our bearing lies—”

 

 

This time, the hit caused Zenos to stumble. In fact, the entire bridge crew was thrown to the floor save for Alphinaud and unlike the other times, the ship did not right itself. Above them the lights flickered, then locked into a distressing wash of red.

 

 

“Port stabilizers down.. They’ve.. -Sir, they’ve hit the reactor! The damage is minimal but the emergency shutdown has initiated. We’ll be without power as soon as the bulkhead seals!”

 

The crewmember’s voice was high with fear. Zenos hissed and snapped out orders while making his way to one of mounted seats and strapping himself in.

 

 

“All of you, secure yourselves. Emergency landing procedures. Get us as close to the ground as you can. Time until emergency shutdown?”

 

A rapidly dwindling set of numbers appeared over the map. Aphinaud’s heart leapt to his throat.

 

“Two minutes!”

 

 

There was a short scramble as the remaining bridge crew followed their leader’s example. The two helmsmen strapped themselves in at their station.

 

 

“Emergency Landing Imminent. All hands brace for impact.”

 

 

Alphinaud’s could feel the rapid change of altitude in his stomach. Without his Grimoire he was unable to do anything advanced but with great concentration he cast a cursory protection over the assembly. Eyes arrested by the timer, he did not see the looks of shocked gratitude from the crew or the assessing look of the Prince.

 

“One minute!”

 

Another hit sent the ship into a corkscrew and Alphinaud clawed the armrests as the force pressed him hard into the seat. He was tempted to close his eyes but he remained focused on the timer, which helped stave off the vertigo as the ship spiraled toward the ground at speed.

 

“Thirty seconds!”

 

It was little more than a strangled cry. The ship was spinning faster and Alphinaud knew there was little chance of survival if they couldn’t wrest control and steady their descent.

 

“Fire port engines at maximum! NOW!”

 

Seconds ticked by and Prince’s order went unheeded. Alphinaud feared the rolling of the ship was too great and the pilots too disoriented until the engines suddenly roared to life and they came out of the spin so abruptly his vision went gray.

 

 

“Ten seconds!”

 

Alphinaud will remember the numbers dwindling to zero. The sudden darkness as the cabin powered down. The weightlessness of freefall. The sound of his own heart echoing in the silence, a different sort of countdown but one just the same.

 

He does not, however, remember landing.

 

2 Hien is not a bad host, it’s that a Doman bed is quite different than an Eorzean one.

3 Jagd is from FF tactics and FF12. It's areas where ships can't fly and/or Judges have no power. I'm using it #srryntsrry


End file.
